


Standing Appointment

by Project0506



Series: Soft Wars [72]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Friendship, Humor, gen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:33:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23943970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project0506/pseuds/Project0506
Summary: The Torrent Command Staff's inaugural post-beatdown discussion session.  Set immediately after 'Oncoming Storm' and 'Storm Forming'
Series: Soft Wars [72]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683775
Comments: 69
Kudos: 616





	Standing Appointment

When Jesse suggested they gen themselves up a stitch and bitch, after, he had no idea it was going to be so literal. If he’s suddenly got Jedi precognition, he’d have at least liked it to come with a warning label. He mutters as much out loud.

The medic’s being _unduly_ enthusiastic, slapping sticky-plast stitch substitutes over his the edges of the slice winding across Jesse’s collarbone as if can slap the trace bacta lining under the skin. Or, alternatively, as if he can slap some _karking sense_ into Jesse, where he wouldn’t have fallen for the job billet equivalent of pretty eyes and a nicely devious smile.

Jesse was _seduced_ into this command banthashit; baited with promises of a nice, normal scout enlistment and cruelly switched for her ugly sister Scout Command. He wants a redo.

“Since you’re the source of both the need for stitches and all the current bitching, I don’t think you have room to talk.” The medic smacks another stitch-sub across the deepest part of the cut. It really karking hurts.

“Easy on the goods,” Jesse snaps. “That’s Republic Taxpayer Credits you’re abusing.” Unsurprisingly, the next stitch-sub is slapped on so hard it echoes.

On the neighboring medbay bunk, the shiny heavy gunner laughs as if he’s not quite sure he’s allowed. It whistles like an eopie with a head-cold. “I can’t feel my face!” he cheers. Jesse viscerally disapproves of that tone in conjunction with that phrasing. That sort of thing should never be encouraged.

Jesse shares a look with the medic; it might be the first time they’ve done so amiably. The medic looks half ready to prove that yes, with the correct stimulus, the shiny can in fact still feel his face quite excruciatingly. The medic considers: the victim under his hand or the victim that’s theoretically already escaped. Jesse flexes any newly-discovered Jedi magic, silently urges him to go back to stabbing at shiny.

Medic slaps a patch across the slice on Jesse’s bicep with prejudice. No Force magic after all, shame. Jesse’d almost thought he and Medic were about to reach an understanding.

“I’m pretty sure The Captain resurfaced the actual entire _gym_ with my face,” the shiny burbles. “I don’t think I’ve ever had my ass kicked that badly!”

Isn’t he _great_ , Jesse hears. Verily doth I wish to get His Dainty Boot Print forever immortalized upon my leftmost buttock as soon as I find a back-alley stick-and-poke.

There’s a bit of hero worship going on there. Jesse disapproves of that too. Particularly while medic applies stitch-subs with the karking heel of his palm.

Asshole.

The truth is the Captain had dragged all them damn-near face first across _several_ training rooms, giving them all a chance to bodily experience the variety of floor surfacing the training facility boasts. Individually, in pairs and in one _gloriously_ humiliating session all three of them at once.

That one actually lasted about half the time of any one of them individually. Jesse’s pretty sure he’s going to have to scrape at least some parts of the shiny’s face off his backplate tonight. From when the Captain had picked him up arm-and-leg and _bodily thrown him in the shiny’s face_.

And of course, Jesse _would_ have to slice himself up on the brand new edges of shiny’s armor

Humiliating.

Medic finally decides he’s satisfied with the volume and variety of medical paraphernalia he has slapped to Jesse’s chest and the shiny’s face. He all but collapses into one of those hard little metal-framed visitor’s chair at the foot of Jesse’s bunk, the ones where the measured the average diameter of a grown man’s _chair area_ and then fabbed the damn thing three inches too narrow and made the little bright orange plastic back about a foot two low and tilted thirty degrees in the wrong direction. It’s the type they put there when they _don’t_ want a visitor hanging around.

Why not just not have a chair at all? Seems more economically sound.

The medic’s arms drop like heavy dead-weights to his sides and he throws his feet in front of him like he’s just going to toss them somewhere with the vague idea that he’d swing back round and pick them up later.

_He’d_ escaped being sliced, when The Captain had decided to throw _him_ at the pile of struggling Jesse and gunner. He’s a lucky bastard; instead of landing on shiny he’d bowled right into Jesse’s chest. Avoided shiny’s edges, but crushed _Jesse_ right back against them for his second cutup of the day.

The day’s been a real education in humiliation. Jesse’s pride is more banged up than his torso. But misery rolls in squads, not solo, so it’s not just Jesse in his suffering. In fact, it’s one whole sad batch of officers haunting the farthest pair of beds and scuffing up this brand new medbay.

Officers.

_Officers_. Ha.

There are twenty three missed comms from some droid in requisitions, trying to get Jesse to come pick up dress grays and Lieutenant insignia. Yeah, maybe the Captain can _make_ him suddenly be promoted, but he _can’t_ make Jesse tell anyone. Probably. Jesse’s going to roll with that until someone makes him stop.

As soon as Jesse figures out how, he owes The Captain a solid right hook. Doesn’t even have to be Jesse’s; he’s willing to outsource.

Shiny lies flat on his back and stares blankly at the ceiling. His nose and eye are purpling and look a lot worse under the harsh white light than they did back in the hallway. There’s a little bit of swelling where he’d cut the inside of his lip. He looks exhausted. Must be tough, not being the one thrown at other people and sliced on their armor. Jesse feels bad for him, really.

“Are all first days like this?” he asks. _Why_ does he sound like he’s having fun? If Jesse were any closer he’d smack him, see if there’s a Common Sense Reset button hidden somewhere. See this is why you don’t get Company Command Lieutenants fresh from Kamino’s latest crop of CTs. It’s the _worst_ possible idea. They think things like command staff bowling is _fun_.

Except, alright. Jesse saw him in the sims, swapping from long to mid to short range weapons faster than an average trooper can line up sights and squeeze a trigger. He’d _reloaded_ during sustained fire and did it fast enough that _Jesse couldn’t tell when_. Which is, you know. _Unnatural._

So maybe it’s a little bit understandable, that the Captain would want to grab this shooty happy little bunny before anyone else does. Especially with the kind of plans the Captain seems to have. The destructive kind of plans. The kind of plans that would only benefit from a shooty happy little bunny that has been carefully trained and tended until it blossomed into a shooty happy karking rancor.

Jesse’s still not real clear on how _he_ got in this mess, though. He curls one knee under himself and tries to find somewhere on the plastoid bed top that could pretend to be comfortable. The sterile mat squeaks in protest. Huh. Is _that_ how medics always know who’s up to shenanigans? The tone of the squeak? Crafty.

“No first day has ever been like this in the entire history of the Republic army,” the medic assures the shiny without opening his eyes, voice Geonosis-dry.

“Our Captain is actually probably certifiably insane,” Jesse agrees.

The medic sighs, long and aggrieved. He melts a bit more into his chair. “No, he’s eccentric. If he was insane there’d be something I could do about it. If he’s certifiable it’d be even easier. No regs against eccentricity.”

Well isn’t _that_ disheartening. “ _I_ _s_ there anything we can do about it?”

The medic flaps his hand tiredly. Jesse takes that to mean ‘probably not’. “Suffer,” medic grunts. “Rail fruitlessly against the uncaring the universe. Perish.”

Real Kamino-bred ray of sunshine here.

Jesse’s never heard of anyone running advanced combat drills for medics before. They’re required to meet standards, but it seems like the Captain’s got a whole different set of standards he’s going by. It seems that way for a lot of things, actually. Plus it’s hard to argue against the effectiveness of his methods when he’s pitching you across rooms. It’s hard to argue much of anything at all, while airborne not under your own voilition.

This morning, Jesse didn’t know that little tidbit. Those were the golden days.

Okay so Jesse has to admit, in retrospect, the three of them weren’t exactly coordinated. The Captain had gotten in the middle of them before they’d even managed to sort themselves out. Jesse can appreciate the object lesson, if not the contusions. Or the stitches.

“Well _I_ like him,” the shiny says stubbornly. “Even if he’s a little weird. I think he knows what he’s doing, even if I can’t figure it out.”

“I think even if he _didn’t_ know what he was doing, no one would ever be able to tell,” the medic drawls.

That’s a pretty good definition of crazy, in Jesse’s mind. He chuckles, and discovers with pinpoint accuracy what all still hurts quite a lot. He tries not to wheeze. “Or no one would be willing to call him on it.”

The medic gestures a ‘ _likely_ _correct_ ’ one handed at him, the way those SF or Marines tacti-cool media sweethearts; those guys who always have their support hands on their rifle stocks and stare off grimly into the distance with a child of indeterminate race in their arms on war promo posters. It’s curious. Medic doesn’t seem like the sort, seems too uptight. It might be the meticulously maintained coiffure.

(What even _is_ that? And _why_? That’s one hell of an intricate way of saying you need a karking hobby, vod1. Jesse sets himself a mental reminder to send him some holonet articles on tatting or macrame or something.)

“So if this is the first day, what’s the second day going to be like?”

Jesse and the medic both groan. “Simmer down shiny,” Jesse orders. “Let’s finish today’s suffering before we start dreaming of tomorrow’s.”

“Sure, if that’s what you _want_.”

Well, well, _well._ Shiny’s got a bit of an attitude under those flashy tattoos, huh?

“Just. Feels to me like The Captain isn’t planning on toning down training. So if we don’t try planning, we’re gonna get all of these injuries again. On top of the ones from today. How many times can someone’s buttcheek break my nose?”

Life must be _hard_ for the guy who _doesn’t get thrown across rooms_ , huh?

“Logic,” the medic snarls like someone said ‘GAR uniform regulations’. The heavy gunner cackles at his disgust. He ends with an ow-ow-ow as he jars his nose. Well would you look at that. He _can_ feel his face.

“I’m with the shiny on this one Meds,” Jesse chimes in. It’s probably not surprising, but turns out it’s _really_ annoying to have someone pick you up and throw you somewhere. “If there’s a way we could feasibly _not_ go flying, I’m interested.”

“Kix,” the medic grunts as if put out. “And a DC-7 is a perfectly valid counter argument.”

“The Captain dual wields pistols,” the shiny says, and Jesse’s inclined to trust that even if he doesn’t know how he’d know. He’s proven enough of a weapons expert Jesse can take his word on it. There might be a secret gunner wave they exchanged. Or shiny’s one of those idiot savant types that can see a worn thread on a sleeve and realize that someone uses a type 3 pistol grip with size 6 screws. “We’re probably better off going hand-to-hand with him, if we want to win. He’s billeted himself as small-arms command. Seems it’d be _real_ _fun_ to go up against, but probably not. Ah. The most winnable.”

Oh hey, Jesse was wondering when something today was going to be horrifying. The Captain _threw Jesse across a room_ , but is apparently firearms specialized, not hand-to-hand. What does he do, _spit_ the bullets? Juggle the karking guns so he can fire eight of them at once?

“What the _hell_ did they put in his tube?”

“Salt,” the medic, Kix, replies instantly. “It’s why he’s blond and also a bastard. Trust me, I’m a medic.”

Jesse and the shiny cackle, and wheeze when their injuries pull. Kix smirks, accomplished.

“Still doesn’t get us a plan,” the new Scout commander groans. He groans again when he realizes exactly what terms he just used to think of himself. “And I still owe him a black eye for dropping this karking Officer thing on me. Anyone?”

“I’ll hold him, and you punch,” shiny offers.

“What is your name,” Kix demands immediately. “For tomorrow night when I have to say your Remembrance.”

Did… did they just have the same fight? Where the Captain does this dancer side-step, grabs Jesse by the extremities, _pitches him_ (and that is _very_ important to note) and knock multiple people shebs2 over boots? “Realistic plans, for Force’s sake _please_ , shiny.”

“It’s _Hardcase_ ,” he grumbles. “And it could work. Like a suppression hold.”

Kix peels his eyes open and stares drolly at Hardcase. That stare sends little ice crystals deep into Jesse’s soul and it’s not even pointed at him. “Let’s call that ‘Plan Zerek’. We’re going to try for something with lower risk of punting first.”

The enduring tragedy of this conversation, Jesse slowly realizes, is that none of them have actually any better plans. Apparently the captain had already filled the Command Tactician role and that doesn’t happen to be any of them in the medbay currently.

No matter what they plan, _someone_ ’s ends up thrown, statistically.

“Bum rush him all at once, just slam him to the mat and sit-”

“No Hardcase.”

“The pitch-factor on that is exactly 100%.”

“Okay what if we got _flash_ _bombs_ -”

“ _No_ Hardcase.”

“Well…” Kix shoots Jesse a look of pure poison. He shrugs. “I’m just saying, it’s the least punt-able plan so far.”

“And I suppose you’ve got flash bombs lying around?”

Well. He _does_ actually. It’s not like they go rifling through your pockets after an engagement and no one’s down there counting how many of the things you _actually_ threw.

Hardcase is staring at him with dawning glee. Kix watches him with a look that’s assessing, _reassessing_. It makes Jesse vaguely nervous. “What all can you get us, exactly?” the medic asks.

Jesse tries not to shift guiltily. “What would you need, exactly,” he parrots and hopes the sarcasm can cover the weird swoopy feeling in his gut. Jesse’s not been caught before, but he didn’t get there by being careless.

Actually. _Actually_. _Jesse’s_ command now isn’t he? The one who’d be doing the catching of the ah… goods obtained via alternate requisition processes.

Kark. Which kriffing moron thought _that_ was a good idea? Jesse’s even more convinced that The Captain had no idea who he was, and just got distracted by his bald head enough to make him command staff. If Jesse had an ounce fewer morals, he’d be a rich man by the end of the tenday.

… Actually. Jesse’s not actually sure _how_ few morals he has. Something to investigate.

“Paralytics,” Kix challenges

Jesse has to think on that one for a moment. “Can’t by tomorrow,” he decides. “End of the week, though. Latest.”

“Shock grenades?” Jesse really, _really_ tries not to react to that one. Yeah, sure he knows a guy. But it’s _definitely_ better if no one knows he does. It’s very important to remember that he hasn’t gotten caught _because_ he doesn’t get careless.

Jesse’s face doesn’t seem to want to work with him. Whatever he sees causes a really nice smile to grow on Kix’s face. It’s Jesse’s kind of devious.

“Well, well Scout. It looks like we might get along after all.”

“… Jesse,” he offers. He couldn’t stop the quick check over his shoulder for brass if he tried, but the med bay is clear. Or well. Not clear. _Jesse’s the brass_.

That’s just _crazy_.

He scoots to the end of the bed and leans in. “How many?”

Hardcase cackles like … well. Like someone about to be left very unsupervised with very unsanctioned munitions. Jesse feels a smile growing to match on his face.

It’s quite possible that Torrent’s Captain went out recruiting for command staff that was as _eccentric_ as he was. Jesse’s got a very good bad feeling about this.

“Think about it! A shock grenade _rotary cannon_!”

Yeah. This Company is going to be a right kriffing _disaster_.

Jesse can’t wait.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Brother. Back  
> 2\. Ass. Back  
> 


End file.
